


you know i love you so

by impulsemomentum



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Marriage Proposal, bc i’m sad melbot lost, can you tell it’s 1:30 in the morning, gay giraffes, kubi is the best, wimbledon fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 01:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulsemomentum/pseuds/impulsemomentum
Summary: Lukasz first sees the box tucked into Marcelo’s tennis bag after the match, in the locker room. He raises an eyebrow, and quirks his chin towards it. “When are you planning to do it?”“Hm?” Marcelo tracks his gaze, and abruptly reddens. “Ah...I...was just a thought. If maybe, he or us...” He trails off, but Lukasz understands.Or, Marcelo wins Wimbledon (again), but he wins something far more important with it this time.





	you know i love you so

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Everyone mentioned below are REAL people with REAL lives, wouldn’t wish to presume, blah blah etc.
> 
> Why on earth I decided to torture myself with this fic will probably remain unknown for the rest of my life, but I mean I’m still sad about W*mbledon so Melbot wins (again) in this alternate universe, hehe. 
> 
> Apologies in advance for the amount of fluff that’s in here. It’s really unnecessary I know, but like, tell me you don’t think Marcelo would be the sappiest boyfriend ever lmao
> 
> Lastly, title is from Yellow - Coldplay :^) enjoy!

_**R64: Melo/Kubot d. Bambridge/O’Mara 6-4 6-3 7-5** _

Lukasz first sees the box tucked into Marcelo’s tennis bag after the match, in the locker room. He raises an eyebrow, and quirks his chin towards it. “When are you planning to do it?”

“Hm?” Marcelo tracks his gaze, and abruptly reddens. “Ah...I...was just a thought. If maybe, he or us...” He trails off, but Lukasz understands.

“That would be good, I think.” He nods, then appears to go back to packing his things.

Marcelo starts when the other man suddenly envelops him in a hug, almost crushing him with the strength of it. He relaxes though, smiling, and drops his head onto Lukasz’ shoulder. “Thanks, Kubi.”

“Am I invited to the wedding, at least?” Lukasz’ voice is a little muffled from the fact that his face is currently crushed against Marcelo’s chest, but his happiness is still audible.

Marcelo laughs, suddenly unbearably giddy at the thought of a _wedding, Jesus Christ_. “Of course. Why not?”

 

**_R64: A. Zverev d. Fritz 6-4 5-7 6-7 (0) 6-1 6-2_ **

Marcelo thinks he may be getting just a little ahead of himself, but he steels himself and does it anyway.

“Mr. and Mrs. Zverev?” He calls, hesitantly, stepping into their room in the rented house. “I can...talk to you? For something?”

“Marcelo.” Sascha’s father looks up, surprised. “Of course. Come on in.”

“Thank you.” Marcelo stands in the doorway, the butterflies in his stomach threatening to fly up and choke him. “I...ah...I want to ask. For. For, uh...”

Sascha’s mother raises a delicate eyebrow. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“I...” Marcelo blushes, lowering his head, but swallows and digs out the box from his pocket. “Maybe so, yes.”

He’s unprepared for the warm body that embraces him, but he breathes in her sweet scent and feels instantly calmer. “Oh, Marcelo, wonderful; you have our blessings. When will you do it?”

Marcelo feels himself redden further. “Ah, maybe too much hoping, but I was thinking...if he or me and Kubi...win? Wimbledon? If not, maybe somewhere else.”

Sascha’s father hums in approval. “Good choice.”

Marcelo looks up in surprise, feeling distinctly wrong-footed. Zverev Sr.’s face softens as he meets Marcelo’s gaze. “You are good for my son. You will be good as a son too.”

Marcelo will vehemently deny to anyone (Sascha) who asks, but he might have cried just a little bit.

 

**_R32: Melo/Kubot d. Erlich/Matkowski 6-7(5) 6-4 7-6(4) 7-6(8)_ **

**_R32: Gulbis d. A. Zverev 7-6(2) 4-6 5-7 6-3 6-0_ **

Bagels have no regard for rankings, nor hastily planned marriage proposals.

He finds Sascha facing the window in their room, quietly watching the dying sunset paint their world in fiery colours. “Sascha...” He begins, hesitant.

“Will you stay?”

Sascha turns, and Marcelo sees the weariness in the darkness under his eyes, in the bruises on his knuckles. “For you?” The edge of his mouth quirks up in a tired grin. “Always.”

Marcelo fingers the box securely tucked in his pocket, and takes Sascha into his arms, seeking his mouth tenderly. “Eu te amo, meu querido.”

Sascha laughs quietly against his lips. “Und ich liebe dich auch, Liebling.”

 

**_SF: Kubot/Melo d. Inglot/Skugor 6-3 6-1 6-7 (11) 6-7 (4) 6-4_ **

Marcelo calls his parents, and asks them to fly down for the final. All or nothing, he supposes.

That night, Sascha is in the middle of furiously riding Marcelo, nails digging deep into his shoulder as Marcelo moans, hands gripping Sascha’s thighs iron tight, when he says, breathlessly, “What are you gonna do when you win Wimbledon again?”

Marcelo groans, raising a hand to lightly slap Sascha’s arse. “No when. And not now, Sascha, I gonna come.”

“Ah, oh, _fuck, hnngh_.”

Later, as Marcelo slips into bed after leaving the towel to soak in the sink, Sascha asks it again, albeit a little more blearily.

“I don’t know,” Marcelo teases, feeling his heart beat furiously. “Maybe I do you, huh?”

“Yeah?” Sascha turns, grins at him. “In front of everyone?”

“In front of everyone.” Marcelo agrees, kissing the younger man again so he doesn’t see just how close to the truth he’s gotten.

“You will be there?” As they slowly drift off to sleep, Marcelo whispers, just to be sure.

“Of course, babes.” Sascha says, yawning. “Anything for you.”

Marcelo’s dreams are a swirl of colours and Sascha saying “anything for you”, over and over.

 

_**F: Kubot/Melo d. Klaasen/Venus 6-3 6-7(7) 6-3 5-7 7-5** _

Through the deafening cheers of the crowd, Marcelo clings on to Lukasz’s grounding touch, a warm hand on his lower back as he goes to his bag and grabs the box with shaking hands. Lukasz is muttering encouraging words in his ear, hand gripping his arm, and Marcelo takes a deep breath, and turns to start his trek into the players’ box. He’s aware of Lukasz behind him, a solid, comforting presence, and focuses, tuning out the noise around him.

Sascha is in his box, cheering furiously with his arm around Daniel, and behind him are both of their parents, standing and clapping proudly.

Marcelo focuses on taking one deep breath at a time, feeling slightly faint. He clutches the box tightly in one hand, the sharp edges digging into his palm. When he steps into the player’s box, he’s immediately surrounded by a throng of cheering friends and family, crowding him and all trying to pat him on the back at the same time.

Lukasz, bless him, comes up from behind and parts the crowd, redirecting them to himself and pulling them out of the way, leaving a small bubble of space with just Sascha and Marcelo in it.

Sascha looks at him, and his face blooms with a delighted laugh, before he pulls Marcelo in for a hug, murmuring ecstatic nonsense into his ear. Marcelo noses at his curls gently, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo, before he pulls back, unable to restrain the undoubtedly sappy smile from appearing on his face.

“You gonna keep your promise?” Sascha’s eyes are bright with laughter. “In front of everyone?”

“No.” Marcelo can feel his whole body shaking, even worse than during match point. “I gonna do better.”

He gets down on one knee.

“Sascha, will you marry me?” He says, and sees Sascha’s hands fly up to cover his mouth, sees tears leaking out of his eyes. He holds up the open box, and shows the whole world his love, his dedication, his promise, with a single ring, nestled in the middle.

Sascha nods, once, and what seems like the entire world erupts in cheer. Marcelo hears thousands of flashes go off at the same time, but disregards all of that as he stands up and slips the ring onto his fiancé’s finger.

“Eu te amo,” He says, cradling Sascha’s face with his hands as tears fall uncontrollably with happiness. “Eu te amo muito.”

Sascha’s not much better. “God,” he gasps wetly, smiling so hard his face has to hurt. “You idiot, I love you so much, ich liebe dich, oh my God Marcelo, we’re getting married-“

Marcelo cuts him off, unable to take it anymore, and presses his lips to Sascha’s, who tastes like sweat and tears, but it’s the best damn kiss he’s ever had anyway. He’s going to spend the rest of his life with the fucking _love of his life_ , who just agreed to become his husband in front of 15,000 people.

He really could not have asked for better.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me if u loved it, hated it, love me, hate me, i wanna know \o/

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] you know i love you so](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623590) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit), [Readbyanalise010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readbyanalise010/pseuds/Readbyanalise010), [WhiteHaru37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37)




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